


Possession

by prairiecrow



Series: Camouflage/Disclosure/Possession/Consummation [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Culture, Flirting, Friendship/Love, M/M, Ritual Challenge, Ritual Combat, Sacrifice, Unwanted Sexual Pursuit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevar Til Assok, son-heir of the First Procurer of the Sevarn Consortium, is back on Deep Space Nine — and this time he's determined to claim Julian Bashir for his own, by challenging Garak to a duel. It's an episode of ritual combat that Garak, who along with Bashir must continue the deception that they're a couple, finds himself highly motivated to win…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Set shortly before the S2 episode "The Jem-Hadar".
> 
> 2) This story is made possible through the generous contributions of the wonderful bmouse, who commissioned me to write in order to help me over a nasty crunch. A thousand thanks to my first ever official patron! :D

Garak smiled benignly — well, perhaps he permitted just the tiniest edge of sharp teeth to peek through — and shook his head as if puzzled and slightly saddened. "My dear Doctor, are you even listening to what you're saying? I simply can't believe that you actually put any stock in the rather —" A touch of a condescending laugh. "— _unworldly_ opinions you've just expressed!" 

Bashir smiled with more than a hint of answering challenge and picked up his cup of tea in both hands, regarding Garak across his nearly empty plate (as usual, he'd eaten his lunch at a speed which would make a Korrelian Dragon gulp with disbelief) with intent hazel eyes. "Oh, I meant every word I said," he asserted — and Garak's heart, in spite of knowing much better, gave an absurd little upward skip in his chest. Because really, the Doctor was so remarkably beautiful like this: his eyes alight with the rousing spirit of a sharp debate, his finely sculpted and deliciously full lips sporting that familiar wry quirk, his elegant hands curved around the cup that was poised between them, practically begging Garak to push it aside and lean in closer… and the sentence he'd just spoken, the one that Garak had called him to task for, the one which suggested that in the Cardassian novel _Night of Shattered Spirits_ the main character, Gul Mentok, would have done better to choose his trusty aide Nortess (in reality his lover, as the subtext of the narrative clearly demonstrated) over his betrothed bride Elena, who obviously symbolized the Cardassian State.  

He was trained never to let his gaze linger on anything he was truly interested in, not during a sparring match like this, but he couldn't help savouring the angles of the Human's brown fingers, so strong and so capable. He had no doubt that Bashir knew exactly what he was saying — after two years of weekly training the boy was actually becoming somewhat competent at layering meanings into a conversation — and that it was yet another move in the chess game they'd been playing for the past three months, the one in which Bashir was relentlessly manoeuvring to take Garak's king… and, not to put to fine a point on things for once, to get him undressed and into one of their beds.  

Garak had to admit that the chase added a welcome thrill to his dull life aboard Deep Space Nine, even if he wasn't the one in active pursuit. Not that he hadn't started the whole affair: when an Evorian trader had taken a fancy to Bashir during the Bajoran festival of Kejal-am and refused to take the Doctor's outraged "No!" for an answer, Garak had taken the opportunity to move in and provide handy camouflage for Bashir's avoidance of the nuisance by pretending that they were sexually involved. And it had worked wonderfully well on a number of levels — it had put Bashir in his debt, it had put Garak in better standing with Sisko for his quick thinking in short-circuiting a potential diplomatic incident, and it had provided the opportunity to flirt with his Human friend quite outrageously, all under the pretext of educating the charming child and carrying out a necessary deception.  

Bashir's reaction to Garak's sexual overtures had been most gratifying as well. Surprise had quickly given way to a most appealing responsiveness, and to an unabashed willingness to let Garak take him as far as Garak wanted to go — which was, admittedly, very far indeed. But Garak had restrained himself. For one thing, becoming genuinely involved with Bashir would put him in a much more dangerous position on Deep Space Nine, under Sisko and Odo's more intense scrutiny; for another, there was no guarantee that the Cardassian Central Command would view his entanglement with a high-ranking Starfleet officer as a positive development, and he had no desire to cast his own reputation any further into the shadows. And of course there was the fact that playing with the darling boy, keeping him interested and keeping him guessing, was indeed the bright spot of Garak's life in exile: if he gave Bashir what Bashir wanted… well, everybody on the station was well aware of how quickly Bashir tired of his sexual toys.  

No, it was far better to keep his distance and string his friend along, a game that Bashir had thrown himself into with new enthusiasm and enough innuendo to sink a Keldon class starship. And Garak had to admit that he rather enjoyed being the prey in this equation, keeping at least one step ahead of Bashir's amorous pursuit and occasionally granting the Human a crumb or two of encouragement to whet his keen sensual appetites. 

Like now, for example: Garak widened his smile just a little and let his gaze openly dwell on the younger man's admittedly very sweet mouth.  "I see," he purred, ducking his chin just a little and raising his eyes to Bashir's again with a flirtatious lowering of his lashes. "You honestly believe, then, that Martok would have found greater fulfillment in choosing the company — completely illicit, I might add — of his best friend over a far more proper life of devotion to the State?" 

It was a thoroughly brazen gambit, and he had the pleasure of seeing Bashir's honey-colored cheeks darken with a blush, his lips growing even rosier. Yes, quite deliciously responsive. "The real question is, could he live with himself after leaving his… friend, behind? Without ever knowing what could have happened between them? Surely that kind of uncertainty would haunt him for the rest of his life." 

"I assure you, the failure to fulfill his duty would be a far worse burden to bear," Garak countered smoothly.  

Bashir took a sip of his tea, his gaze never wavering from Garak's. The intensity of that connection dimmed the noise and color of the crowded Replimat and Promenade around them to insignificance. When he'd lowered the cup from those damnable lips and swallowed unhurriedly, the Doctor asked quietly: "And why couldn't he have had both?" 

That contention made Garak laugh out loud, gaily. "Oh, come now — you know far more about Cardassian society than that!" He put down his fork, which he hadn't used in the past five minutes, and leaned forward, fixing Bashir with a reproving stare that nonetheless contained an element of fondness. "Quite aside from the matter of the lack of social context for any such… relationship… with Nortess, there would be the positive antipathy of Cardassian sensibilities of that place and time when it came to —" 

He was warming to his new argument to the point that he really wasn't paying much attention to the environment around them — a most dangerous lapse in surveillance, as he realized when he saw the change in Bashir's expression from friendly (and somewhat sexualized) interest to surprise — and a degree of alarm. A half-second later his own lunch plate was quite ruined when something was tossed onto it from behind Garak's right shoulder: something long and white and raw and blood-streaked, bent and cracked in the middle, needle-sharp splinters adorning its broken edges.  

Bashir slammed down his cup of tea and leaped to his feet, his dark eyes flashing. Garak was peripherally aware of their new fire: he was busy staring at the object in front of him, which he now recognized as the thighbone of some large animal, forcibly fractured as if it had been twisted to the breaking point by a powerful grip on either end. And then a deep velvet voice rumbled from behind and above him, a voice he instantly recognized, snapping all the pieces of the puzzle into a coherent configuration: 

"I shall rend you, I shall unjoint you, I shall frust you into scraps too small to be scorned by the mice that cower beneath my father's table. No more shall you nourish that which I have marked for my own. Stand and fight, need-gut — or flee empty, and perhaps I may spare your miserable life." 

Garak turned in his seat and looked up… and up… into the pale broad arrogant face of an Evorian nobleman, posed in a proud stance with arms akimbo, his immensely powerful body clad in considerably richer garments than Garak had last seen upon it. His green eyes, irises ringed with paler blue, gazed down upon Garak with undisguised aggression — as if presenting him with a forcibly fractured piece of dead animal hadn't been enough of a clue that his intentions were less than friendly. 

And it was Bashir who responded first, outraged anew: "Zevar Til Assok! What are _you_ doing here?"  

The trader smiled at Garak, a far from pleasant expression, before turning his jade gaze on Bashir with a more tender regard. "You see now that I told no lies, pretty Morsel. I said that I would one day return to win you from this half-empty grain sack's larder — and behold! I have kept my vow." 


	2. Chapter 2

Twenty minutes later both Garak and Bashir were in Odo's security office, awaiting the arrival of Commander Sisko. Garak had just seated himself calmly in one of the chairs in front of Odo's desk, legs crossed at the knee and hands folded in his lap, while the Constable grimly reviewed security footage of the confrontation in the Replimat on one of the displays set into the back wall of the office. And Bashir — Bashir was pacing with barely contained nervous energy, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and his dark-haired head lowered, his gaze fixed on the floor.  

"My dear Doctor," Garak repeated for the second time that afternoon, observing his friend's progress, or rather lack thereof, with an outward appearance of mild interest, "there's really no point in getting worked up over this. I'm sure it was all an unfortunate cultural —" 

Bashir's turned his angry face in Odo's direction. "You can't charge him with _anything?_ " he demanded. "Not even assault?"  

"No," Odo said curtly, pausing the video footage at the moment Assok threw the broken bone onto the Replimat table. "He didn't even touch Garak, and while I might be able to make a case that he was uttering threats…" He paused, grinding his crudely formed jaw like a man tasting something foul. "The Commander will explain when he gets here." 

And speak of the devil, the double doors slid open to admit the tall dark form of Sisko, wearing his habitual expression of composed authority — but Garak thought he could detect an undertone of annoyed tension. "I came as quickly as I could, Constable." He nodded at his CMO. "Doctor Bashir." A more cursory inclination of his chin toward the seated Cardassian. "Mister Garak." 

Bashir leaped into it without even pause for a civil greeting. "Commander, why wasn't I informed that Assok was returning to the station? Given his behaviour during his last visit —" 

Sisko help up a warning hand, and for a second Bashir looked like he was going to disregard it completely. Garak slid a warning glance his way, prompting him to close his mouth again. "If I had known, I would certainly have told you. But I didn't know, because Primator Assok and his attendants arrived unannounced on a shuttle from Bajor, where the Evorian delegation is finalizing the larinium trade treaty." 

"Well, send them back again!" Bashir's color was high, his fine nostrils flaring, his dark eyes afire. Garak had to admit that he looked absolutely splendid. "He threatened Garak, and he practically assaulted me! I want them off this station before they cause any more trouble!" 

"Doctor," Odo said, stepping out from behind the desk to join the conversational grouping, "I don't recall seeing Primorta Assok strike or touch you in any way, either." 

Bashir looked at him in disbelief, then back to Sisko, then back to Odo again. "Well, no, but he… he wanted to! You could see it in his eyes." 

Odo folded his arms in his usual stiff-backed manner. "A look in someone's eyes doesn't constitute a crime under Bajoran law — or under Federation law, either." 

"Odo is right," Sisko agreed, that look of dissatisfaction deepening in a way that Garak found extremely interesting. "And the Bajoran government has made it quite clear that the Evorians are to be treated with as much generosity as we can offer. The trade agreement is in the final stages of negotiation and they do not want the Evorian delegation to pull out because we've failed to properly respect their customs." 

"You didn't hear what he said!" Bashir insisted. "He threatened to take Garak apart, and then he stated that he intends to 'win' me from him in combat! It's completely ridiculous!" 

Sisko simply gazed at him, and after a few seconds Bashir huffed out a small breath and visibly deflated, his hands falling to his sides. The Human CO had perfected the art of quelling people with a look to a science, and Garak couldn't help admiring him for it. 

"Doctor," Sisko said at last, "I want you to be perfectly frank with me. Are you and Mister Garak currently in a sexual or romantic relationship?" 

Bashir's slender shoulders slumped a little further. "No, sir," he replied in a subdued voice, with a little sigh that suggested: _But not for lack of trying._  

Sisko nodded fractionally. "I see. Well, the rumour mill is still under the impression that you are — and clearly, so is Primator Assok. And I want to keep it that way." 

"And if the inhabitants of this station have clung to that conclusion all this time," Garak chimed in, "in spite of the fact that we've done absolutely nothing to encourage it since the Evorians departed the station three months ago, just think of how emphatically they'll believe it if we give them a few hints that an affair might indeed be taking place."  

Bashir was shaking his head. "No. Assok threatened you because he thinks you and I are a couple — and if Commander Sisko can't force them to leave the station, I won't see you put in that kind of danger." 

Garak blinked at him. "The choice is mine, wouldn't you say?" 

Sisko interjected before Bashir could reply: "The situation is a bit more complex than that. The bone that the Primator presented to Garak is a formal declaration of a _sor'tar'ka_ challenge, which their laws demand if the target of the challenger's affections is already the property of another male. And according to their laws, the target cannot be claimed until the challenger has beaten the current possessor in a ritual duel. However, if the target does _not_ officially belong to another male, the challenger is free to pursue the target using any means at his disposal — including aggressive seduction, or even outright abduction." 

Bashir's hazel eyes had widened considerably, his upper lip curling in disgust. "Surely you're not suggesting that that smelly Evorian brute would —?" 

"Not on my watch he wouldn't," Odo growled. 

"But he might try," Sisko concluded. "And any interference by station security might be interpreted badly by the Evorian delegation, and thus derail the trade negotiations."  

Odo nodded the way he did when reaching a conclusion in agreement with those of his colleagues. "Whereas if the Primator believes that you are a possession of Garak's, he'll leave you alone." 

The Doctor's eyes had narrowed again, his slim shoulders stiffening. "I'm not going to use Garak as a shield! You've seen the size of Assok: he could take him apart with one hand!" 

Garak shot a look of reproof in Bashir's direction, and a ripple of laughter: "Oh, _please!_ " Which prompted a more searching glare from Odo. Garak smiled back and concentrated on looking as innocuous as a _semek_ dumpling; he got the distinct impression, however, that Odo was not fooled. 

Sisko sighed, his gaze shifting from his CMO to the Cardassian tailor. "Mister Garak, I'm in no position to ask you to take this kind of risk. The _sor'tar'ka_ challenge demands an answer within twenty-five hours. If you refuse, the Primator will consider himself in a position to pursue Doctor Bashir with impunity. But if you accept, he'll expect you to take part in a ritual duel within twelve hours after your acceptance."

"And the duel is to the point of...?"

"Incapacitation. Usually. Or to the death, depending on the mood of the participants." 

"Well then," Garak said, still smiling, "the solution is perfectly clear, isn't it?" 

Bashir smiled in relief. "Good. I'm glad you see it that —" 

"I'll take the duel. How does one go about responding to a —?" 

"Garak!" A nearly pained yelp, and he turned his attention from Sisko to a pair of warm pleading eyes whose gaze slipped into his heart like spring rain into a crack upon weathered stone. He ignored the thrill of penetration. 

"And tell me, what is the alternative?" he queried, cocking his head inquisitively. "That you go hide in your quarters until the Primator gets tired and goes home? He really doesn't seem the type to give up that easily. Or that you go around under armed guard, to keep him at a distance? I imagine that would offend him even more. No, Doctor, the simplest and most elegant solution lies in my acceptance of his challenge, which will keep him off your back — among other things — for at least thirty-seven hours. And who knows? By then the trade negotiations might have been concluded, rendering the whole thing moot." 

Sisko looked grave. "I'm afraid they promise to stretch on a good deal longer than that." 

"I see," Garak nodded. "And is there a way to extend the window of the _sor'tar'ka_ challenge?" 

"Not without conceding." 

"No!" Bashir shook his head decisively, taking a reflexive step toward Garak's chair. "I won't allow it! We'll just have to come up with a different —" 

"Garak is right." Odo ground each word out as if over broken glass, his gaze parsing Garak's body thoughtfully. "And I wouldn't worry so much, Doctor. If Garak has been half of what I suspect he's been in his long and misspent life… well, let's just say that I wouldn't give even the Primator good odds against a member of the Obsidian Order." 

"Constable!" Garak laid a hand to his heart, looking scandalized. "Why must you persist in believing those malicious — and entirely unfounded — rumours? Have I ever given you the slightest cause to —?" 

"Yes," Odo said flatly.  

Sisko was studying Garak as well, his expression neutral. "I'll have Lieutenant Dax provide you with information on how the properly answer the _sor'tar'ka_ challenge, although I'd advise you to delay doing so as long as possible. It may turn out that something distracts the Primator's attention, or even calls him off Deep Space Nine entirely." 

Garak nodded. "Understood, Commander." 

"Garak, please…" 

He turned to look up into Bashir's face, and for a fraction of a second a crystal-clear image flashed to the forefront of his mind from his eidetic memory: the look Assok had turned on Bashir when greeting the Doctor, an expression of hungry tenderness that had left no doubt in Garak's mind that the Evorian wanted nothing more than to reach out and seize what he'd come for, and to devour it. And the prospect of seeing Bashir manhandled against his will — _his_ darling Doctor, violated… 

… well, it certainly gave Garak plenty of incentive to meet the Primator in combat. Cardassians had evolved away from their savage saurian roots into a cultured, poised and self-assured people, but that didn't mean that the thought of someone laying hands on what was his, even if he couldn't take full advantage of Bashir's attentions, filled Garak with a nearly overwhelming desire to hiss, and bite, and inject his rival with the lethal fury of his venom.  

The smile he offered Bashir now carried no hint of the ferocious instincts thrumming behind every scale. "My mind is made up, Doctor. And I'm afraid that's all there is to it." 


	3. Chapter 3

On the one hand, twenty-five hours was almost an entire Bajoran day. On the other hand it was really scarcely any time at all in the grand scheme of things, and for Garak the hours flew by quite swiftly, all things considered: his tailor shop was busier than usual, as curious station residents stopped by to get a good look at the resident Cardassian expatriate before he was bent, folded, spindled and mutilated by a man who topped him by a good forty-five centimetres and outweighed him by at least twenty-two kilograms. 

Physical dimensions aside, there were, of course, multiple reasons for Garak to meet Primator Assok in ritual combat. For one thing, it would settle once and for all the matter of Assok's supposed claim on Bashir; Lieutenant Dax had assured Garak that if he won, Assok would clear off for good. For another, if Garak won the Evorian delegation would be embarrassed — to a lesser degree than Bashir outright refusing Assok's overtures, true, but the loss would still sting. Assok was the son of one of the lead ambassadors, and there was a slight chance that the offence would be great enough to damage the trade negotiations, which would greatly please Cardassia's Central Command. The Central Command had not forgotten the high-handed way the Evorians had treated Cardassian representatives during the last attempt to trade larinium, nor had they forgiven the insult: nobody in the galaxy had a memory as long or as sharp as a Cardassian who perceived that they'd been wronged. Garak's victory in the challenge ring would only improve his standing in the home from which he'd so long been exiled, since it had the potential to harm both the Evorians and the Bajorans who were hanging so many hopes on the successful signing of the trade agreement. 

And if Garak lost… well, there was nobody on Cardassia who would shed many tears, and quite a few people who would doubtless open a vintage bottle of kanar in celebration. So really, it was a win-win situation all the way around.  

It had been a matter of an hour to craft a spoken response to the _sor'tar'ka_ challenge the previous evening, have Lieutenant Dax approve it, and memorize it; to have Chief O'Brien replicate an animal thigh bone suitable for the gestural aspect of the ritual acceptance, a matter of seconds. At twelve minutes to the twenty-fifth hour since Assok had thrown the broken bone onto his lunch plate Garak was walking briskly down the corridor leading to the Primator's guest quarters in the habitat ring, dressed in his most stylish black ensemble and feeling rather pleased, truth be told. Given the Evorian's previously expressed opinion of him, he fully expected laughter to greet his stated intention to meet the much younger, taller, broader and more obviously muscular man in combat — laughter which he looked forward to making Assok eat raw, without salt or yamok sauce, when they stepped into the ritual combat ring in a few hours.  

Quark was already busy making arrangements to set up a holosuite with the appropriate trappings, his beady eyes alight with the prospect of profits to come, and no doubt running a brisk betting pool as well, with most of the money probably falling on the side of the more physically prepossessing combatant. Garak would have expected no less, and also suspected that come this evening the holosuite would be packed with far more spectators than Commander Sisko had officially approved, given Quark's habit of "accidentally" selling too many tickets to any event guaranteed to fill the house. 

He had almost reached Assok's suite when he heard a swift stride approaching him from behind, accompanied by a sharp voice pitched low: "Garak!" 

Of _course_. For a heartbeat he considered simply stepping up his own pace, but with a sigh he resigned himself to the inevitable confrontation, stopping and turning to face his pursuer. "Doctor, please —" 

"Don't 'please' me," Bashir snapped, closing the last of the distance between them and standing aggressively close, right in Garak's face. "You know full well that I'm against this, but you're going to do it anyway, aren't you!" 

Garak held up the thigh bone he carried in his left hand, politely but pointedly. "I can't think of another reason I'd be carrying bits of dead animal around the station, can —?" 

"There you go again, trying to deflect the point of the conversation!" More thunderclouds gathered on his furrowed brow. "I'm not joking, Garak — I want you to let the challenge lapse, if you won't refuse it outright. Believe me, I can take care of myself." 

"Can you?" He studied Bashir's face with keen interest, impressed when the younger man didn't back down a millimetre. He could remember a time, not so long ago, when such scrutiny would have provoked at least a blush and a stammer. "Believe _me_ , I have no intention of standing aside and letting that _darktok'ta_ treat you like a ripe piece of fruit to be snatched off a low-hanging branch, if for no other reason than that it would do your reputation, which is already questionable in certain quarters, no favours whatsoever." 

His forehead smoothed marginally. "Then you _do_ care." 

"You've been a good friend to me," Garak admitted, as much as the truth pained him at the best of times. "I think that such steadfastness in the face of my… difficult position deserves some small repayment." 

"You're not an easy man to be friendly with, I'll admit that much," Bashir grumbled. "You're evasive, you're duplicitous, and you don't scruple to tell outright lies simply, as far as I can tell, for the sake of entertaining yourself." 

"An accurate assessment, all in all." Garak rewarded him with a smile. "I'm impressed, Doctor! Your powers of observation are definitely improving." 

"But, if you're going to do this…" An element of something warmer entered his hazel gaze, and he leaned a little closer, his voice falling to a more intimate murmur. "…I mean, if you're going to put yourself at risk on the premise that we're… together… don't you think you should at least receive the benefits of that supposition as well as hazarding the dangers?" 

Garak stared at him for a long moment before bursting in a bright peal of laughter. "Oh, my darling boy — you simply don't give up, do you?" 

Bashir's gaze never wavered. "I've made no bones, so to speak, about the fact that I want you. And more importantly, that I want to be with you." He reached out to lay his hand on the left arm of Garak's elegant tunic. "Garak, please… let's go to Assok together, as the couple we've been pretending to be." 

He continued to smile, but could not deny that there was an element of sorrow behind it now. "That's quite impossible, and I think you know it." 

The young human shook his head, frowning again. "If you got injured tonight, I'd never forgive myself. And if you got killed…" 

"There was a time, you know, when you thought I was the most dangerous spy in the quadrant." 

There was consideration in his dark eyes now. "I still think you are — but being a spy doesn't mean you've been trained to engage in hand to hand combat with a man the size of a small shuttlecraft." A keener look. "Does it?" 

He took a slight step back, away from the Doctor's hand. "While I normally find playing Twenty Questions with you to be a most entertaining diversion, I'm afraid I don't have time right —" 

"Garak. _Please._ "  

He'd started to turn away, but paused long enough to turn a fond gaze on his friend. "There are reasons behind my decision that you wouldn't understand, even if I tried to explain them. The differences between our cultures are simply too great. But accept this much as the truth: I know what I'm doing, and why." 

Bashir shrugged, glancing briefly away. "I've learned that trusting you is a mug's game. Do you really expect me to fall for that?" 

"Yet you want to take me to your bed?" 

His gaze locked onto Garak's face again. "Yes. In a heartbeat." 

He couldn't quite suppress a sigh. "Go back to the Infirmary, dear Doctor. And this evening bring a full med kit to the holosuite, because one of us will be leaving the arena on our shield, not with it." And with that he turned on his heel and set off down the corridor again, half expecting the Human to follow him, perhaps even to catch hold of his arm… 

…but Bashir did not, and when Garak reached Assok's quarters and snapped the bone in two before the Primator's face and threw it on the floor at his feet, reciting his fine ritual speech, the Evorian did indeed roar with merriment, as did his entire entourage.  

Garak simply smiled in a way that made some of them stop laughing cold — not Assok, the overconfident fool — and silently took his leave, already composing his mind for sleep. A nap was definitely in order, because in five hours he would be stepping into an arena full of people avid for the sight of blood, and he would be fighting for his life — and more importantly, for the freedom of the only man he could truly call a friend in his lonely exile. 


	4. Chapter 4

The babble of the spectators as they waited for combat to officially begin was a constant background murmur, like waves endlessly washing up over a gravely beach. Garak resolutely ignored it, concentrating instead on carefully and methodically stretching every muscle group in his body. 

Sisko had, as predicted, been incensed to discover that although the combat was supposed to be a private affair, with an audience consisting of Primator Assok's entourage, Bashir and an assistant physician, Kira, Odo, Sisko himself, and a small security force, the holographic arena Quark had prepared sat at least a hundred — and it was packed to the walls. Quark allowed that he "may have sold a few tickets" but insisted that he couldn't revoke them now, not when the entire station was buzzing with anticipation: did Sisko want to cause a riot? The Commander had not been impressed and had threatened to clear them all out regardless, but Assok had intervened and insisted that the audience remain: their presence, after all, would only enhance his own prestige when he won… and Sisko, with Kira's gaze intent upon him and the Bajoran government's request that he cater to the Evorian delegation doubtless ringing in his ears, had agreed with barely civil good grace. 

Garak clasped his hands in front of him and extended his arms to their full length, giving his shoulders and neck ridges a sinuous twist. He did not look across the ring at Assok, who was clad in a flowing costume that could only be described as both tacky and ostentatious, all purples and yellows with gleaming black knee-high boots, scarcely suitable for combat in Garak's considered opinion. For his part Garak had settled for a comfortable outfit of short tunic and tight pants, both in dark earth tones, with low-heeled brown ankle boots that incorporated a good gripping sole: a combination that would give his opponent little to catch hold of when things got hot, while concealing the worst flaws of his own rather rounded figure. 

Speaking of which… he could sense Assok's gaze upon him, smirking and contemptuous, and he was fairly certain that he knew what the Primator was thinking: that in comparison to his own broad sleek frame his opponent was old and slow and stout, about as threatening as a potato dumpling — which just went to show how little the Evorian knew about Cardassian physiology. What he didn't realize was that Garak embodied a truism of his species' metabolism, which was that males in middle age tended to develop a layer of subcutaneous fat that effectively concealed solid muscle beneath, and that was exactly what Garak possessed. During his years in exile he had kept up a strict exercise regimen in the privacy of his own quarters, including strenuous combat exercises, and the training of the Obsidian Order was not something that faded over the course of time. Assok might think that he was getting into the ring with a turtle, to use a Terran metaphor, but…  

Garak smiled to himself, extending one leg behind him to properly warm up the tendons. He had never been the combat machine that some Cardassian males carefully honed themselves into becoming, but he still anticipated that Assok would discover, to his sorrow, that what he'd thought was a turtle was in fact a rattlesnake — or more accurately, a crocodile with thick skin and a devastating bite.  

He was aware of another pair of eyes turned in his direction from another quarter of the ring's periphery, wide and hazel beneath a visible frown: Julian Bashir. _His_ Julian Bashir, even though he might never touch that honeyed skin with anything more than an outward show of casual friendship. The five hours since he'd accepted Assok's challenge had been interesting in another intriguing respect: he'd awakened from his nap both refreshed and keyed up in a whole new way, with unwonted possessiveness singing deep within his saurian bones. Evidently the posturing dance he and Assok had been performing had woken up glands that had been dormant within him for decades, and with them ancient instincts which had clearly marked Bashir as his own. He was now looking forward to bloodying his claws on Assok's big cornfed body for reasons that had nothing to do with politics between Evor, Bajor and Cardassia, oh yes, and deep within his jaw dwelt a yearning ache, as if the poison glands his species had evolved away millions of years ago were longing to inflict mortal wounds on his rival. 

Finishing his stretches, he straightened again and turned his gaze to Sisko, who stood in a little group with Bashir, Kira, Odo and the Evorian referee, evidently deep in conversation with all of them. Garak could feel that he wore a smile and was mildly perturbed that it wasn't an expression he had deliberately chosen: rather, it was a baring of teeth in the presence of the man who dared to threaten his lovely Doctor. He wondered exactly which hormones were currently coursing through his system; Bashir could undoubtedly have told him, but Garak was in no mood to be fussed over at the moment. His attention was rapidly narrowing to Primator Assok, whose gaze had now locked with his across the ring and who was paying little attention to his earnestly talking companions. There was venom in that shared regard that fired up Garak's blood even further, and he felt a low growling hiss struggling to break free of his chest. Judging by the Evorian's smile, which was likewise devoid of either humour or friendship, Garak judged that he was operating under some hormonal imperative of his own. 

When the referee called the crowd to order and held up the elaborately carved and beribboned challenge rod a hush fell over the audience, a hundred bodies leaning forward with bated breath. This was the moment they had been waiting for, and that most of them had money riding on: Quark had obviously built this fight up into the sporting and betting event of the year. Garak was only peripherally aware of that factor, his usual multitasking frame of mind constricted to the tension of waiting, the sharp descent of the challenge rod as the referee swept it down and sprinted out of the ring — and then the first advance, circling and evaluating, calculating every detail of his much larger enemy's physical motions and psychological markers. Conclusion: Assok was supremely confident, and he had reason to be, for he was supple and immensely strong — but not quick. Not as quick as Garak, at any rate, and that was all that mattered. 

Circle. Feint, tiny sharp motions, testing each other's reflexes. When Assok lunged forward to grapple the crowd gasped, but Garak ducked and darted out of range — and within a minute they were booing and roaring, disappointed with Garak's way of evading Assok's attempts to come to grips and dodging his thunderous blows. A similar rage was mirrored in the Evorian's green eyes and the wider snarl of his bared teeth, but he threw no taunts, and Garak had to grant him a measure of respect for that forbearance.  

The overhead chronometer stood at 0:42 when Garak, having sized up Assok's maneuverability and tactics to his satisfaction, darted in, delivered a precise blow to the Evorian's flat belly, and darted out again — and Assok doubled over, momentarily stunned at the amount of pain he was in from a targeted nerve cluster strike. A hush fell over the audience as Garak followed up with another rabbit-quick punch of bladed fingers and wove back out of the giant's enraged reach... and then a new roar broke out, this one excited and exultant, as the spectators realized that they were in for more of a show than they'd anticipated when they'd thought that Assok was going to take Garak down in the first thirty seconds of the fight. Garak could almost hear Quark calculating his profits, but he was too busy keeping an eye on his opponent to fully appreciate the niceties of all the external factors. 

From the sidelines, from the cluster of watching Starfleet and Bajoran representatives, a sharp intake of breath that he heard and recognized even over the howling of the masses. _You see, my dearest Doctor,_ he thought as he balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to move in any direction, _you should have trusted me after all._  

The Primator recovered quickly from the agony of the nerve cluster strike — much too quickly for Garak's taste — and the fire in his eyes blazed to new heights with rage so incandescent that Garak could practically read his thoughts: how dare this half-empty grain sack seriously challenge _him_ , the son-heir of the First Procurer of the Sevarn Consortium! He waded into the battle, determined to take a certain Cardassian tailor apart like a cooked chicken, and evidently he hadn't been living up to his full potential before — because now his blows started to connect, and every one of them inflicted spectacular amounts of damage. Within two minutes Garak was sporting cracked ribs and bruised internal organs, along with a broken nose, a fractured cheekbone, a cracked orbital socket, two loose teeth, and a badly sprained right wrist, along with probable broken bones in that hand — but he was still on his feet, because his fury burned just as fiercely and an enraged male Cardassian, particularly an Obsidian Order operative, was capable of working through a tremendous amount of pain to get the job done.  

Nobody had asked him — nor, as far as he knew, his opponent — how far they intended to take this duel. But it was to the death. He could see it in Assok's coldly narrowed eyes, and he was certain that equally lethal intent shone in his own gaze. Had he ever doubted that the Evorian prince was ready to kill to gain his prize? Certainly he had never doubted that determination within himself. 

To kill for his Julian, so innocent and idealistic, always willing to believe the best of anybody. He could sense Bashir only metres away, staring in dismay, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Sisko close a quick hand around the Doctor's upper arm to stop him from running to his friend's aid, the laws of the ritual be damned. Savage exultation burned in Garak's breast alongside his ruptured _hassak_ organ: when he finished with this presumptuous blowhard he'd show the Human boy what devotion _really_ meant, he'd take him in his arms and growl against his neck and mark his sweet brown skin with tender bites that held no poison… he'd give him what he so dearly desired, and the cost be —

The staring eyes of the cheering crowd faded from his awareness as Assok's ham-sized fist ploughed into his upper belly, pain exploding beneath its impact as his liver took critical damage. Internal bleeding, probably catastrophic. He'd have to wrap this up quickly. Instinct guided his counterstrike, stabbing his fingers into the Evorian's corded throat — the fool had gotten too close in order to land his fatal blow — and they broke apart again, glaring at each other beneath the harsh lights, both nearly stumbling as they retreated. The Primator was looking rather the worse for wear himself, his broad white face bloodied and bruised, one eye swollen shut… and to Garak's profound satisfaction his sway suddenly turned into a swoon, and he crashed to the floor like an _ardak_ tree felled by a final critical blow to its massive trunk. 

Gazing down at his fallen foe, at the crumpled limbs and the white dreadlocks splayed wildly around his shoulders, Garak bit back a primal roar of triumph and lunged in to finish the — 

" _Garak, no!_ " 

Only one plea in the quadrant could have stopped him from falling to his knees and breaking Assok's neck. He turned on his heel, barely cognizant of the referee breaking the challenge stick over one upraised knee, to see Julian rushing toward him with tricorder already out, narrow expressive face full of dismay.  

He managed to remain standing. He was smiling again, but this time with happiness as his eyes shone at the beautiful man whose freedom he'd won. He took an unsteady step forward and opened his mouth to say something, he knew not what — 

— and promptly passed out, unconscious before he hit the floor, only dimly aware of Julian leaping forward to catch hold of his arms as he went down. 


	5. Chapter 5

When next Garak opened his eyes, it was to the beige ceiling of the Infirmary — and to Bashir's grim face leaning over him, studying him with sharp eyes that didn't quite manage to conceal the warmer quality lurking in their depths. 

He ached. He could sense that the internal damage had been repaired and his loosened teeth reseated in their sockets, but he still felt like a mess on the outside, his grey hide patterned with bruises and cuts.  

"Garak." Nothing in the universe could have sounded more melodious to his ears than the voice of his friend, or felt more welcome than the light touch of that slender hand on his left shoulder, fingertips lingering along the terminus of the neck ridge. "How are you feeling?" 

"Better," he allowed, "no doubt thanks to your skilled ministrations." 

Bashir nodded, a hint of a smile cracking his stern demeanour. "I repaired damage to five of your major organs and to various broken bones throughout your body. That last blow to your liver could well have killed you." 

He closed his eyes against the glare of the overhead lights. "And the Primator…?" 

"Is alive, if not quite well. You ruptured his carotid artery with your final strike. But he'll recover: he'll just be laid up for a day or so." A pause. "He wants to speak to you, once you're both up to it. I get the impression he wants to formally concede." 

"I see." He pasted a smile on his face and started to sit up. "Well, please let him know that I'll —" 

Stronger pressure on his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?" 

He persisted. "To get dressed, and then go back to my quarters." 

"I don't think that's —" 

"Doctor, we've had this discussion before." He opened his eyes to regard Bashir with a world-weariness backed with steel. "And I think we both know how it turns out." 

A pause. A sigh. Bashir removed his hand, permitting Garak to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the biobed. "You're still a mass of cuts and bruises, you know." 

He shrugged. "Cosmetic damage. They'll heal on their own, I'm sure." 

"Or…" Another hesitation, then a hand laid gently on his other shoulder once he was on his feet. "I could come by after my duty shift with a dermal regenerator, and take care of them in the privacy of your quarters."  

Garak turned his head, already smiling, with a glib deflection on the tip of his tongue…  

… and felt something primal rise anew as he looked into those wide brown eyes and saw the plea that lingered there — and an equally stubborn determination not to be denied. He almost gave voice to a possessive growl, and perhaps he made some small sound after all, for that trace of a smile returned to Julian's full lips, his black lashes lowering slightly in a hooded gaze of promise. 

From the man he'd been ready to kill for, for reasons that had nothing to do with politics or other sundry manipulations, although of course those had gotten all wrapped up in the affair. The man he had, in a pure sense, simply wanted to protect… and to bring within his sphere, to dwell there with warmth and brilliance to rival the sun of the homeworld he might never see again. 

His Julian, whom he had fairly won. 

So Garak nodded instead, cautiously. "That would be… most kind of you, Doctor. Most kind indeed." 

Julian nodded, still smiling, and let him go on his way. He left the Infirmary without another word, but wearing a smile of a quality that he hadn't had occasion to wear in decades: subtle but radiant, full of anticipation and deep instinctual satisfaction, for tonight his friend would come to him again to weave a spell of seduction — but this time he had no intention of turning the Human away. 

THE END


End file.
